


Unconvincing

by canufeelthemagictonight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Feels, Bruce Has Issues, F/M, I Tried, Natasha Needs a Hug, Not Brutasha Friendly, Past Relationship(s), Red Room, Unrequited Love, an undercurrent of Bruce Banner/Betty Ross, because I will stand on the Bretty hill and DIE on it, everyone needs a hug really, i guess?, mainly with love and getting his act together, no Nat hate though cause she deserves better, some Natasha feels as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canufeelthemagictonight/pseuds/canufeelthemagictonight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I adore you," she says, and he</i> wants <i>to say it back, he</i> wants <i>to so bad the wanting screams inside him. But the words stick in his throat like that old bologna-and-mayonnaise sandwich he'd almost choked on in college, and he </i>can't.</p><p>My interpretation of the Bruce/Natasha "love" story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconvincing

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder that this story is written by a non-Brutasha fan (Bretty FTW), so if you hardcore ship it, don't read. This does not, however, have hate to any of the individual characters. I just happened to notice that Bruce didn't seem to be into the romance as much as Nat did, and so I wrote this.

He's trying, honest to God he's _trying_ to force himself to feel it. He stands inches away from her, breathing in her pine-tree scent, admiring the icy blue of her eyes, wishing he could use his extensive knowledge of all things scientific to concoct some chemistry between them.

But if Betty Ross was quicksand, sucking him into her before he could so much as blink, Natasha Romanoff is a cold, clear lake, and he's in the shallow end holding an anvil.

He's desperate to drown.

Too bad he's such a good swimmer.

 

Their relationship starts as a strange sort of game, a game Bruce knows he isn't good at. While the rest of Avengers Tower parties, drinks, and boasts, he walks up to her in her bar-fresh glory and asks her through tentative smiles what a nice girl like her is doing in a place like this.

Is this flirting?

He honestly isn't sure.

But when she responds by waxing nostalgic over "this guy, who spends his life avoiding the fight because he knows he'll win," he realizes she's talking about him. That she has _feelings_ for him. That their relationship has somehow snuck past friendship without him noticing.

He tries to brush it off with a simple "Sounds amazing," not sure if he's totally on board with the whole more-than-friends idea. The woman is amazing, a heroine in every sense of the word, a million times more than he deserves, he might even be feeling the beginning of _something,_ and yet...

"He's also a huge dork."

_Dork._

His mind involuntarily flashes to his long-ago love, grinning at him across a study table, reducing him to a blushing mess without even trying. "You're such a dork," she whispers, her voice affectionate and rebellious at the same time. Her hand fits perfectly into his and—

_No. Stop._

Betty's gone. She's moved on with her life. He'll never see her again and he doesn't want to. As much as he loved (loves?) her, he can't bring himself to risk her safety for a monster.

He has to forget her. He _needs_ to forget her.

He's just not entirely sure if that means running straight towards the arms of the next available woman.

Natasha, for her part, admits that she, too, is not sure whether to "fight this or run with it." Bruce nods in sympathy, glad she can't see the complicated array of emotions parading across his brain.

Steve Rogers, for once in his life, isn't helping. "I've seen her flirt, up close," he lets Bruce know, and Bruce can't help but wonder the exact definition of "up close." "This ain't that." He claps Bruce on the shoulder. "As the world's leading authority on waiting too long...don't wait."

_Oh, God...this is really happening. She's in love with me, and...am I in love with her?_

"Don't go..."

"...run with it..."

_Am I?_

He decides he'll think about it later, and then Ultron happens and the whole thing completely slips his mind.

 

His hands are shaking.

He's in the Quintet, buried in his sweaters, reliving the bits and pieces of memory he's managed to salvage from the latest Hulkout. The screams of innocents, Tony's pleading yet firm voice, and the roar of the Hulk blur together like a soundtrack to his own personal horror movie, combined with the horrific images of carnage from his Maximoff-induced vision. So much destruction, terror, and death. So much. Too much.

And he's responsible. Again.

 _Why did I ever think I could do this?_ he sobs internally, curling into a tight little ball in a futile effort to squash out the part of him that destroyed Johannesburg and Harlem and the Canadian border and _oh god where does it end?_

And now, he's here, with all these people he cares about, Tony and Natasha and Steve and the rest, they're all in danger, _he's_ the danger, and _I can't. I can't do this. I can't risk it anymore. First chance I get, I'm leaving. I_ have _to._

He can't help but remember another day just like this one (four years? five years? God, so long ago...) at Culver University. Helicopters destroyed, buildings ruined, soldiers screaming in terror and pain—and _her,_ saving him, taking him away, calming him down, bringing him back. Betty, the constant, the one who refused to let him go even as he begged her to save herself from him.

This time, though, it isn't Betty who makes him feel like himself again. It's _her._ The _other_ her. Natasha.

There's a reason she was chosen as the "Hulk whisperer." For some strange reason, the Other Guy seems to respond to her in a way he hasn't responded to anyone since...well, since Betty, really. If Tony's the Tin Man, the over-exuberant playmate that taught him the value of letting loose once in a while, Natasha is the hook that reels him back to normal.

(The metaphor makes him slightly uncomfortable, as he knows full well that Natasha Romanoff would not take kindly to being referred to as anybody's _hook.)_

And now, here she is, by his side, even as he shies away from her gaze. Her eyes are every question Bruce doesn't know the answer to, and he can't bring himself to meet her unwavering gaze.

"How long," she asks softly, "till you trust me?"

But that's the thing: he _does_ trust her. Of course he does. She's his friend, his teammate, his confidant, everything he wishes he could be...

...or, at least, she was.

But feelings are fluid, and now, if you asked him what Natasha Romanoff is to him, he wouldn't have the slightest clue. And the blackness of uncertainty scares him more than a thousand Ultrons ever could.

"It's not you I don't trust."

 _It's me. It's us. It's_ this.

 

Clint's got a family.

Clint's got a wife and two kids and a third on the way and a nice little farm and the whole freakin' package. All he needs is a white picket fence and wham, the American Dream.

Bruce isn't bitter. Really. He isn't. Laura's the kind of person it's impossible to hate, the kids are the "rot-your-teeth-out" version of cute, and Clint's such a doting husband and dad it's almost ridiculous. The whole thing feels like one of those feel-good family movies where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

Except when he thinks about that pitch-perfect family and their idyllic lives together, the _what-ifs_ return once more to haunt his dreams.

_In another world, there is no Hulk. The accident never happened. He sees himself, hand in hand with Betty Ross, sitting on the porch of a farmhouse just like this one, watching a little boy and girl play tag in a golden cornfield. The children have Bruce's eyes, Betty's smile, and (for some strange reason) Natasha's bright red hair._

_Peaceful. Perfect. Extraordinary._

_Impossible._

He sighs and turns the water off with one decisive twist. He's no Clint Barton, he can't even have a normal _life_ let alone a family, it's just a long-lost fantasy, so what's the point of dreaming?

_Get real, Banner. Open your eyes. Put the past behind you. Focus on the now. Go, run, get out of here, before you strike again._

As he mentally chants his new reluctant mantra, he takes a quick shave, pulls on a pair of shorts, grabs a towel, and exits the bathroom, expecting to find an empty bedroom and a few more abandoned memories.

But there's Natasha, dressed in a white bathrobe that compliments her eyes, and the "now" he meant to focus on is staring him right in the face.

"I...didn't realize...you were waiting," he mumbles, his cheeks getting warm.

Natasha shrugs. "I would've joined you, but..." She gestures to the bathroom, its door still temptingly ajar. "Didn't seem like the right time."

And now they're back to the easy banter, the back-and-forth he's only just beginning to get comfortable with. "I...used up all the hot water," he admits, focusing on the trivialities and ignoring the elephant in the room.

"I should've joined you," is her to-the-point reply.

"Missed our window," he says with a shrug.

Her smile is nostalgic; a wish illuminates her face. "Did we?"

He's loitering, and he knows it; every second spent talking to her, staying with her, is pulling her closer into the danger zone. He can't string her along in this game of will-we-won't-we anymore. He has to go. Now.

And yet...he can't leave without telling her why. Running out of the room, the farm, her life without a word of explanation—even _he_ knows he can't do that to her.

So he reaches for his clothes and his reasons simultaneously. "The world just saw the Hulk—the _real_ Hulk—for the first time." He pulls on a shirt and chokes out the words he'd give anything not to say. "You know I have to leave."

To which she replies, in typical blunt Black Widow fashion, "And you assume I have to stay?"

He stops in his tracks and stares at her in a state of bewildered shock. He expected her to kick up a fuss, to insist he stay—if not for her sake, then at least for the team's. But what she seems to be suggesting is something else entirely, something he hasn't even considered.

 _You...want to..._ go _with me?_

She can't. The team needs her. She's the best fighter he's ever seen, she keeps the other guys in line, she holds the whole operation together with strong red threads...and she's not a threat. Not like him.

They're not the same. They never were.

But before he has the chance to beg her to stay, she speaks again. "I had this, um, dream. The kind that seems normal at the time." Her voice wobbles, her hands clench, and a lone tear escapes her right eye. "But when you wake..."

"What did you dream?"

"That I was an Avenger." The words come out in a flurry of self-loathing—the same emotion Bruce Banner wears like a second skin. "That I was anything more than the assassin they made me."

To call Bruce "stunned" would be an understatement. He's aware of the bare bones of Natasha Romanoff's backstory— _trained in the Red Room, assassin, Clint sent to kill her, "he made a different call," and she's been with SHIELD ever since—_ but he's never taken time to think about the impact such a life would have on her. Maybe it's because she appears so strong, careful not to betray the slightest of weaknesses...or maybe it's because he's been so wrapped up in his own problems he hasn't considered the inner demons his teammates struggle with.

He curses himself for being so self-absorbed and insensitive, dreams up thousands upon thousands of reassuring speeches to comfort her, then promptly forgets every word.

After a few seconds of too-awkward silence, he finds a satisfactory sentence to utter. "Aren't you being hard on yourself?"

What he doesn't say: _don't say that, you're amazing, you're perfect, you're a better person than I could ever hope to be._

But what he does say somehow manages to get the point across, because a genuine smile cracks the wall of stone on Nat's face. "Here I was hoping that was your job."

They're two inches apart, within kissing distance, and the nervous uncertainty in Bruce's heart surfaces once more. "What are you doing?" he whispers, her mint-fresh breath in his face, his mind a confused blur of hearts and thunder.

"I'm running with it," she murmurs, her voice lighter than a cloud on a warm summer's day. "With you." Her fingers brush against his cheek before finding a home within his hand. "If running's the plan, as far as you want."

This is the part where he ought to kiss her, to hold her close and feel her beating heart against his chest. This is the part where they're supposed to surrender to the sweeping romance this story's becoming.

This is the moment. And yet, Bruce still isn't ready.

So he mutters a feeble "Hey, uh, do you mind?" and walks away, his head in his hands, not knowing how to love her, not knowing anything.

She's seconds away from opening her mouth and he's already beating himself up again. Why must he play the do-I-don't-I game? Why can't he just either take her up on her offer of love or shake his head and let her down easy? Why is he so spineless, indecisive, wishy-washy?

 _What's wrong with me?_ screams his heart.

His brain sighs. _Where to begin?_

"I want you to understand that I'm—"

"Natasha..." He reaches once more for his fallback excuses. "Where can I go? Where in the world am I not a threat?"

"You're not a threat to me—"

"You sure?" The room is bathed in a soft yellow light—a stark contrast to the shades of blue and green mixed together inside his heart. "Even if I didn't just..." _Clint's got a family._ "I can't ever..." His arm sweeps across the picture-perfect setting. "I can't have this...kids..." He blinks back his dreams and focuses on the tearful reality. "Do the math. I physically can't."

As he speaks, another memory surges to the forefront of his mind...

_"We can't do this."_

_"It's okay." Her voice is a breathless whisper; her breath tickles his nose as she speaks. "I want to."_

_But his heart monitor is picking up the pace, and he knows they're flirting with the monster. "No, no, I can't, I..." He pulls away from her, trying to ignore the memory of her body, wounded and lifeless in his arms. "I can't get too excited."_

_The expression on her pale face wobbles, but somehow manages to stay its reluctant course. "Not even a little excited?"_

_The moment's gone, and both Bruce and Betty already know the answer._

Natasha shrugs, and there's a calm sadness behind her eyes. "Neither can I."

Bruce stares, confused.

"In the Red Room, where I was...trained..." The word "trained" escapes like a hiss of smoke, and she quickly reconsiders. "...where I was raised..." Another pause, and he can tell she, too, is forcing out memories long since suppressed. "They have a graduation ceremony. They sterilize you. It's efficient. One less thing to worry about—the one thing that might matter more than a mission. Makes everything easier." And then, with tears in her eyes, she hits the part that hurts the most about the whole experience, "Even killing."

Bruce has the sudden urge to Hulk out on the monsters who did this—who shattered Natalia Romanova's smile, smeared buckets of red all over her ledger, and tried their damdest to snuff out any spark of good left in her. Because here she is, still feeling their effects, still thinking herself a murderer after all this time, and a memory away from falling apart within the walls of Clint Barton's little farmhouse.

And romance or no romance, it hurts him to see her like this.

"You still think you're the only monster on the team?"

_Yes, Nat. Yes. I do._

But he keeps his comments to himself and resolves to give her the affection she needs. He's still having trouble summoning feelings for her, and then there's that stubborn part of him that still won't let go of a girl he hasn't seen in years, but Natasha's the one who needs him right now, so he'll stay. For her.

And as for the love, that's _bound_ to come in time.

 

She's safe, she's out of Ultron's prison, and they're running who-knows-where. He's mentally keeping track of every footstep, every smile, every tiny breath Natasha Romanoff takes, still pressing on in a desperate effort to feel the way she feels.

"We gotta move," he tells her.

"You're not gonna turn green?"

"I've got a compelling reason not to lose my cool."

And that, in itself, is true: he needs to stay Bruce Banner. He needs to hold himself together and get them both somewhere safe—somewhere far away from the city that's in danger of being turned into more Hulk collateral damage.

She smiles up at him, and _love her, love her, love her, damit!_ drums through his head like a marching band, trying to make a Natasha-shaped dent in his heart.

"I adore you," she says, and he _wants_ to say it back, he _wants_ to so bad the wanting screams inside him. But the words stick in his throat like that old bologna-and-mayonnaise sandwich he'd almost choked on in college, and he _can't._

And then she's kissing him, and it hits him mid-kiss: _oh, God, this isn't working._

The next thing he knows, he's falling, _literally_ falling into the abyss, the wind roaring in his ears, snatching at his curly hair. Down, down, down he goes, sinking into air, heartbeat quickening, danger rising, anger (at himself, for letting her down, for letting _everyone_ down) obliterating everything else.

Seconds before the other guy takes over, a name flashes across his half-conscious mind.

_Betty._

Funny, he'll later reflect, how some bonds refuse to break.


End file.
